


A Moment of Eternity

by ninamalfoy



Series: Changing Skies [2]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Betaed, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-19
Updated: 2010-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-10 16:25:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninamalfoy/pseuds/ninamalfoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He feels alive for the first time since he watched Metze drive away from the hotel.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	A Moment of Eternity

**Author's Note:**

> First posted on LJ on April 22nd, 2007.
> 
> Not true in the least bit. I'm just borrowing their public persona to play.
> 
> Firstly, lots of thanks to the nine betas that faithfully carried out their task to excellence: ayascythe, rotschopf, angualupin, erjika, ladyhurt, mittelfeld, mithrilx, beautifuljinx and entchenmv! Each of you contributed to turning this fic into a beautiful gem which then needed the last and careful polishing from jeanne_alouette, who has been so lovely to dedicate her precious free time and superb professional experience to a final beta-read. Thank you all so very much! *blows kisses*
> 
> And a very, very special thank-you to cerulean_eyes, who has been there all the time and always believed in me and encouraged me, never letting up. Thank you, Niña. *smiles*

Metze's gone.

He's gone.

_Again_, a little nasty voice whispers. _Again, and he left you behind, like always, haven't you learnt your lesson, haven't you–_

Shut up, Basti thinks, blindly turning around, shut up, what do you _know_ anyway, what – and just why am I arguing with a voice in my head?

"Mr Kehl?" Karin's worried voice hauls him back in, back into that grittysharp reality, back where he doesn't want to be, but has to. He turns to her, not knowing what to do now, what is he doing here, anyway, why isn't he out there, calling another cab, following Metze – no. _No_.

"Er – about the room, shall I send someone up to clean it?" she asks, eyeing him, clearly gauging him for any untoward reactions. Basti shakes his head, trying to dredge up a sincere smile but apparently, judging by her almost invisible frown, fails. Spectacularly. "I'll do it myself," and he's not at all surprised how cold – no, harsh – his voice sounds.

In their room – no, it's just a room like any other in this hotel, just a room with a fucking stupid number, 41 – he suddenly feels like someone deflated him, pinpricked him like a fucking balloon, and he slumps down on the bed. The room still smells of Metze, of the aftershave he uses, and it's as if he'd come in any moment, lankytall, smiling shyly at him, and Basti'd be completely sold on him. Would scoot back on the bed, spreading his legs. Return the smile, winking at him lasciviously. "Come here and show me what you're made of, Metze," he'd say, and then he'd be flattened by a warmlankymuscled body, his mouth silenced by a determinated tongue, and –

And daydreaming isn't getting him anywhere, he reminds himself. He gets up, switching on the autopilot he uses whenever he has to do his duties – and suddenly stops, having divested his side of the bed of the linen and the likes, seeing a glimpse of something fadedyellow peeking out from under the other pillow - _Metze's_ pillow, he reminds himself – and then he remembers. Metze didn't wear pyjamas, he'd liked to wear only boxers and because the nights were rather chilly, he had matched the faded grey-striped boxers with a T-shirt of his, something that had been a garish yellow once, but had washed out so much that there was only a hint of the former colour left and an advertisement for some charity printed on the back.

Basti drags the bunched-up cloth out from under the pillow and holds it up in front of his eyes. Ah. Something about kids with learning deficiencies.

He has to smile involuntarily – it had been Metze who had pleaded with him to donate some of his time to the RoterKeil organisation and to write the foreword and some text for the book against child prostitution with him. And his mind is rushing back to these times, the almost carefree times when their only worries had been anything related to the World Cup, the Bundesliga and whatever else that their jobs as professional football players entailed, but otherwise, everything had been more or less great … and then he's pressing the T-shirt to his face, inhaling deeply, Metze's smell still lingering, and he feels the fabric dampening around his eyes.

He doesn't know how long he's standing there, but steps behind the door pull him out of the stupor and he continues with stripping down the beds and bundling up the linens efficiently, checking in all possible places – and there are quite some – for anything suspicious, as Metze's famous for forgetting stuff like lube or condoms (after the second or third time, Basti had resorted to packing these items himself whenever they were sharing a room abroad with the team), but nothing turns up.

Finally, he puts the linen bundles outside of the room, so that Anna, the chambermaid doing the rounds today, can pick it up when she cleans up the rooms. The T-shirt is tucked into his jeans so that it hangs out halfway.

*

"Papa!!" His little son runs up to him, arms spread wide and his huge blue eyes full of joy. Basti chuckles, squatting down to be on his son's eye level and swooping him up in a quick hug.

"Did you miss me?"

His son nods wildly, his little impertinent mouth forming an adorable pout. "Very much! Grandma told me lots of stories, but they were about princesses and fairies and such stuff. I wanted to hear some about soccer players, but she said she didn't know any," Andy confides in him.

Basti laughs and, looking up, catches Tina smiling slightly at them. She's wearing a dark blue twin suit with the jeans, her handbag slung over her shoulder. He straightens up, taking Andy's hand.

"Care to join us, madam?" he says, making a little bow into Tina's direction. Her smile broadens and she curtseys. "I'd be more than happy to, milord," she says, and he offers her his arm and this is how they walk into the hotel, Andy dragging his favourite plush elephant behind him and chattering without seemingly ever wanting to stop, about the zoo and grandmother's food and what he and Basti's dad played together and how he wants to have a moustache just like granddad, and… and it's just like it should be, like it was, but Basti feels slightly unsettled, doing all the routine movements, talking, nodding, smiling, inquiring – it's different now, strangely so. He can't pinpoint it, can't lay his finger on it, but it feels as if there's a tiny piece in a huge mosaic in the wrong place, just a few nuances too off from the surrounding colours, and it rubs him the wrong way.

*

Basti usually doesn't wear anything to bed save briefs or boxers, he likes the freedom of moving around as much as he wants to, but this night he pulls on Metze's T-shirt, slowly, the scent clinging to it making him light-headed and heavy-hearted. Absently, he picks at the hem as he walks into the attached bathroom, catching some loose thread and ripping it off with a quick jerk. He cleans himself up, brushes his teeth, all the while sneaking glances at himself in the unyielding mirror; always expecting to see someone different in there, someone who fucking knows what he's doing, not someone who's stumbling blindfolded onto a tightrope up there in the sky without a safety net, arms flailing wildly, always too close to slipping, but always managing to catch himself in time – but what if his luck runs out one day?

When he returns to their bedroom, Tina's already snoring slightly, her current romance novel still in her hand. Basti eases it out of her lax grip, putting it on the ever-growing heap of half-finished books on her bedside table. He dims the bedside lamp – she doesn't like to sleep in total darkness – and then tiptoes around to his half of the bed and eases under the sheets. They feel strange to his touch and the mattress is uncomfortable and everything else in the room is… is, well, _off_, although he has lived here for years already, even put up the big wardrobe with the help of his two brothers, hammered in the nails for the three pictures showing them – him, Tina and Andy – even changed these very sheets the last time himself, but it now feels as if he were in a stranger's house. He's cold, despite the T-shirt and the thick downy-filled sheets, and he wants to curl up to someone, wants to slide his arm around a waist, edge closer, nuzzle a short-cropped neck and there'd be a soft sigh, delicateblunt fingertips following the veins on his forearm, up to his hand and then the finger's tangle with his own, and he'd hear "Goodnight, Basti," a deepsleepy burr, and he'd drop off in an instant. But the warm body now lying next to him isn't the one he's longing for.

He's reminded of back then when he had been a lonely teenager in Hanover, some hundreds of kilometres far from his parents, the hotel and everything. It had been a month already, but Basti had still felt out of sorts in Hanover. On that one day when he had waited in a café for Fabe, who had promised to show him more of the city, she had been standing at the door with a smile lighting up her face. It had been the first time he had smiled back at a stranger who didn't see him in his football kit.

And then she had asked him, brushing a strand behind her ear as she bent over his table, if the other seat at his table was still free.

He phoned Fabe to let him know that something had come up, and they agreed to meet up the following day instead. She was still waiting at the table for him, smiling, having accepted at face value his excuse for having to phone someone urgently.

He saw that the chocolate she had ordered had been brought already and she sipped it, seemingly at ease with the world around her, grounded. This was when he fell in love with her. She had seen him for what he really was, a lonely boy waiting. He could be the most himself when he was with her, he didn't have to turn and twist to be pegged as her hero, and he had grasped this chance at being loved for someone he really was. And she had kept up her part of the deal, had been there for him, waiting for him to return from matches, from training camps, from celebrations, from long nights out with his friends, partying, from holidays spent with buddies, always smiling, easy and uncomplicated.

And, in a twistedstrange way, he had used that. Used her easily given trust. Although, in a way he had been faithful, too, he never had looked at other women, but…

He slips out of bed again, goose bumps travelling up his legs from the cold wooden floor, and it creaks only ever so slightly as he opens the window and climbs out of it and when his feet hit dewy grass, thanks to living on the first floor, he lets go of the window ledge. Basti walks to the Hollywood bench under the cherry tree, the grass tickling his soles. Basti breathes in deeply, letting his head fall back, sliding down on the bench until his heels rest on the grass, providing him with enough leverage so he can set the bench to move gently.

Thoughts are racing in his mind, around and around, like a cat trying to catch its tail in a frenzied whirr, and he closes his eyes. Usually, if he had something important to sort out, he'd talk to Fabian Gerber, good old Fabe, but this – and that discovery jolts him: that he really hasn't anyone whom he could talk to about this. About everything. Someone who'd just listen and then point out some way out that he can't see right now. Before, he would have said that he'd trust his wife with anything that was on his mind as he mostly didn't have to hold himself back around her, save for some things he didn't tell her or didn't confide in her because everyone just has to have some secrets, something that is his only; something no one else can touch nor steal.

All this time, he has kept this secret, ever since it became one. And even more so since the championship party, when it had damned fucking hurt so much to realize that Metze wasn't going to come, never had the intention to come, and apparently didn't care a bit about him anymore. Not even a phone call, for fuck's sake. And the idiot that Basti had been had held onto his old phone number all this time, too, persuading himself that it'd be easier if he didn't have to remember a new phone number whenever he got a new cell. The first thing Basti did the next day was to go out and buy the newest cell model that was available, learning a new number by heart – although he does still remember the old one.

And he had married Tina. Somehow this had been tied up in that whole disaster, too; she had been there as his girlfriend, quietly chatting with someone else's girlfriend. She had looked up at him, laying a delicate hand on his arm, raising her eyebrows, "Are you all right?"

He had just nodded, jerkily, a false smile plastered on his face that hurt, and she still had that little cute frown line between her eyebrows – shit, she knew him for so long, he shouldn't fake anything around her – and then his shoulders slumped and she drew him down next to her and held his hand, cooldry, soothing his jittery ache. He then knew – in that instant – that he'd marry that woman who'd never disappoint him, who'd stay at his side to wait out everything and anything to come. But when he had kissed her it had felt like ashes and damnation.

It has started to rain, a slight drizzle, the slight pitter-patter of the raindrops on the roof of the Hollywood bench making him drowsy, but Basti straightens up. He doesn't want to catch a cold. Giving the bench a last shove, he walks back to the open window, thoughts whirling faster and faster in his mind.

*

He is distracted a lot over the course of the next few days. Firstly, he had to apologize to a guest when he had failed to put her reservation down - luckily rooms still were available – and then he had bought only two kilos of potatoes as opposed to the twenty the cook had asked for, which had led them having to make up a different menu on the spot. It isn't long before Tina confronts him.

"Sebastian?" He turns around. She's standing in the doorway to his office – it's actually just a little closet that Basti had repainted and furnished with a desk and chair together with some shelves –, looking at him with that frown line that makes him want to kiss it, to feel it smooth out.

"What's wrong?" she asks.

Basti sighs, leaning back in his chair. "I don't know." _Oh, but you do, liar_, and he shakes his head, clearing it out. With a few steps, she's leaning against the edge of his desk, right in front of him, and her hand comes to rest on his own.

"Is there a problem, Basti?" she asks, concern and love colouring her words, and he shrugs. "I really don't know, Tina. Maybe…" and he looks down at their hands and closes his around hers, feeling the smoothsoft skin, "maybe I just need some time off or something."

She slowly nods, still looking earnestly at him. "Maybe you do need that." And there's something in her look, searching, and Basti – for a millisecond – thinks that she's found out about his secret. He still remembers what a shock it had been to find her downstairs with Metze next to her. She was supposed to come back two days later with Andy, and it had been enough to stop him dead in his tracks, searching for a hold amidst the sudden confusion in his mind. She had just _looked_ at him, and he knew that she knew.

But he doesn't know how _much_ she actually knows; how much he had needed the man next to her and not just as a dear, long-lost friend. Since this fateful weekend, he has sensed some uncertainty from her – it's as she's waiting for him to make the first step, to – what? Confess? Apologise? Or just to go back to where they have been for the past years, saying nothing, covering the whole thing up as if it had been nothing?

He doesn't say anything, his thumb repeatedly smoothing over her knuckles. He doesn't know what she sees in him, but apparently it is enough as she smiles at him. She's no stranger to waiting for him because she knows better than to hurry him.

*

"Sebastian," and he turns, surprised at hearing his father's gruff voice, "how are you?"

His father had taken the longest time to admit that Basti could handle the hotel alone. It had taken quite some persuasion from his mother to make his father relinquish the ownership to him, and to this day he still comes by, but Basti knows that his old man is secretly proud of him.

But now it seems as if his father's belief in him is tinted by worry, and Basti sighs. "You heard from Tina, right?"

His father nods and his heavy hand comes to rest on Basti's shoulder in a tight grip. "Needing help isn't a shame, Sebastian."

"I need help?" Basti asks, a bit more sharply than he has intended, but his father takes it in stride.

"It's the stress, I think. You haven't had any vacation in quite some time, if I remember correctly," he says.

It's only been about half a year since the last one, actually. They had been to the Northern Sea, renting a little bungalow and going swimming with Andy almost every day, but Basti just nods, waiting for his father to elaborate.

"So, we've thought about it, Sebastian, and we think you need some time off. We can take over for the time as we do know our way around and this way, I can finally get started on that tree house that I promised to Andy as well."

He's grown up and he doesn't need his parents to decide what to do with his life, Basti thinks, but then, he doesn't want to endanger the hotel's smooth routine any more. And going somewhere else, where nothing would remind him of Metze – that suddenly sounds just like what he needs.

And if he were honest with himself, Basti knows that it's just a question of time until he'd go crazy with trying to forget Metze but not being able let go of the memories of them together. He looks up to his father and nods.

"Thanks, Dad," he says. "That's a good idea."

His father smiles at him. "Good."

"Granddad!" Andy is running towards them, laughing as Basti's father swoops up his grandchild and Andy's suddenly busy with squealing and giggling while trying to escape the nimble fingers of his grandfather.

"So where will you be going, Sebastian?" his father asks, hauling a still giggling Andy onto his shoulders.

Basti shrugs. "I don't know yet, really. I mean, we've just decided on it..."

His father nods. "Yeah, well, I heard that Christoph – it was him, no? Your old friend, with whom you wrote that book? – was here last week. He still lives in Dortmund, doesn't he?"

It all comes back to him, to Metze, and it's as if everyone _knows_ and it's only him who's left in the dark, and Basti searches his father's lined face for something – anything, but it doesn't tell Basti anything except for open curiosity.

He sighs a short, "yes, he does."

"There you go, son," his father replies, seemingly unperturbed by Basti's abruptness. "You could return that visit, chew the fat with him, maybe play some football for fun, eh?" And with a wink, he turns around, Andy still on his shoulders.

Basti shakes his head. But it isn't as if he doesn't know where Metze lives. He had crumpled up the card in his fist after he had to watch Metze driving away. But later, upstairs, he had smoothed it out. Read the number, the address, everything. Clean, simple design, nothing fancy – very Metze-ish. Now he takes it out again, having stuffed it into his jeans pocket. The print's fading in places, only one edge still smooth, but he doesn't actually have to look at it as he knows its content by heart now.

But – does he have the balls to go after Metze? Does he really want to face him again, to rouse the fierce dragons again that have just dozed off into a fitful sleep? There's so much at stake here; he's no stranger to gambling, but this time, it'll be his whole life – and more. It's not just him. Tina, too. Andy. The hotel. Everything. Metze's life. It all ties up in a huge, unruly Gordian knot and Basti isn't Alexander the Great, doesn't have a sword to slash through the knot, solving the riddle once and for all.

He sighs and sits down on the bench next to the hotel's entrance door, the fragrance of the potted lavender to his left calming. The bench's dark wood is rough, but warm to his touch. Basti rests his head against the whitewashed wall. It's a beautiful day, clear blue sky dotted with feathery clouds, and if the weather forecast is correct, the high will last for weeks to come. Good business for the hotel.

Suddenly, he is pounced upon by a laughing and wriggling human being. Bastian smiles as he hugs his son. "What's the matter now, Andy?"

"Come play with me, Dad!" his son says, slipping down from his father's lap and tugging at his shirt.

"Have you worn out Grandpa?" Basti asks, raising an eyebrow. Andy shakes his head. "No, he just went inside. Come on, Dad!"

And so they end up in the hayfield behind the hotel, passing a ball to and fro. At Andy's suggestion, they mark a makeshift goal and Basti gets to be goalkeeper. But he lets the easy balls through, of course, and when they take turn, he's shooting the ball in any direction – only not in the goal's – until his son's exasperated yells force him to play for real.

Laughter and shouts mingle in the air as they continue their one-on-one match. It doesn't take long to attract curious people and so Felix, the neighbours' son – a weedy teenager – joins in. Basti and Andy play against him for a while until reinforcements arrive in the form of Marcel and his father Jörn, two guests. Soon an actual football match takes place, six guys each, with Basti captain of his team, yelling commands here and there and it feels _great_.

Later, when he's under the shower, washing off the sweat and grass blades and dirt, he hears a knock on the bathroom door. "Come in," he yells, squirting shower gel into his hand. The outline of Tina is visible through the matte fake-glass partition of the shower as she crosses the room. She bends down in front of the commode and pulls out the drawers, one after the other, obviously searching for something. "What is it this time, the nail care case? Or the comb?" Basti asks, opening the partition a bit and squinting at her. She looks up at him from where she's crouching on the floor, now down to the last drawer, and shakes her head.

"No, it's just the extra band-aid case. Andy has a little cut on his knee and he doesn't want to have the boring brown ones. He wants the ones with Spiderman, and I don't…" –

"Right there, to the left," Basti points. "I put them there after our last vacation."

"Thanks, darling." The little plastic case in her hand, she blows him a kiss, and Basti can almost feel it settling on his cheek, drycool, and then she's out the door, closing it behind her.

Only the cool air that has replaced the warmth in the room is proof that Tina was here. Basti sighs and closes the partition, leaning his head against it. Suddenly, the elation of winning the makeshift game is gone, replaced with all these troubling thoughts.

He doesn't have a life, just a heap of missed chances and wrong choices, like shattered glass all over the floor so he has to tread extra carefully.

*

"I'll take the leave tomorrow, if that's okay with you, Dad." Basti takes a small sip from the cup of tea his mother has put in front of him although he has said he was just dropping by. His father smiles at him. "The weather's fine enough to start the tree-house, so it's perfect."

"Won't you need any extra help?" asks Basti.

His father shakes his head. "No, Benjamin is coming with his fiancée for one or two days. That should be help enough. Just go and get your head screwed back on right, will you?"

Basti nods. "I'll try to."

And when he says good-bye later, he hugs his father, just because. And if there's a prickling feeling at the corners of his eyes that he can't shake still some time after the hug, well, then so be it.

*

He had known, somehow, that this could – would happen. That his world, his comfortable little world would be turned upside down. As soon as Karin had told him that a Mr Metzelder had asked for a reservation for a single room, he had known. But he hadn't told her to tell Metze that they were all booked out or that the pipes broke and all the rooms were underwater or some other sad excuse like that. On the contrary – he even rescheduled the couple that had been booked into room no. 41, making excuses and promising them an extra weekend to make up for the inconvenience.

And it all culminated in him sitting here, in his Porsche, drumming an infrequent melody against the wheel, just some hundred metres from where Metze lives now. Right around the corner. His cell is lying on the passenger seat next to him, waiting for him to call someone he doesn't want to forget anymore.

He could still turn back, drive back onto the autobahn, leaving Dortmund behind him and go west, maybe drive to the Netherlands. Instead, he dials the number he knows by heart, his thumb hovering over the dial button. "Fuck it," whispers Basti and presses down.

"Christoph Metzelder speaking."

Shit. The cell almost slides out of his sweatslippery grasp and Basti fumbles around, composing himself after he has ended the call with a quick push. Metze's voice. Warmdeep, quiet, and it still hasn't lost anything of its pull. It's why he loved – still loves – listening to Metze ranting about everything and anything. And when it took on that certain timbre when they had phone sex, Basti had felt like he could almost come from the sound alone.

He draws a deep breath, trying to calm himself. The air in the car suddenly feels scratchy in his throat, so he opens the door, stretching after closing it behind him and leaning against the car's side. The faint echo of Metze's deep timbre still rings in his ears and as he raises the cell, he notices that his knuckles are white from gripping it so hard. Slowly, Basti lifts it to his ear – thank god for redial – and then he waits for Metze to answer the phone again.

"Christoph Metzelder speaking."

"Hey Metze," Basti says, his voice cracking slightly.

He can hear Metze drawing in a sudden breath. "Basti?"

"Yeah," Basti says as he starts walking towards the corner of the street. "How are you?"

"I…", and plain as day he can see Metze swallow, the prominent Adam's apple bobbing, and he'll run a hand through his hair, "well, I couldn't say."

Basti's turning the corner, and the first house to his right has the number 20. Metze's is the next one. It's a posh district with villas, every one of them painted in pastel hues set off with white stucco and surrounded by carefully trimmed greenery, bushes here and there, interspersed with flowers – roses being the dominant choice – and slim, tall trees. Metze's house doesn't look much different from the others.

"Basti?"

"Still here, Metze," he says. He's now in front of Metze's house. The garage door is closed, so he can't see if the car is in or not. "Are you home?"

"Yeah, d – did something happen?"

Good old Metze, always worrying about others. "No, nothing bad happened, as far as I know." Steps, one by one, and then he's standing in front of the door. "But maybe something _will_ happen."

"Speaking in riddles, Basti?" And now Basti would swear that Metze's brow is furrowing.

"No, I'm not. But, say – if I were standing in front of your door, would you open?"

It's silent on the other end; only quiet breathing. Basti thinks he can almost hear Metze's heartbeat.

"Maybe," his best friend says. "I can't…" And these three little words carry so much; heavy feelings that are familiar to Basti, all _too_ familiar. His finger traces the coolsmooth surface of the bell. Metze's name is engraved in a silver plate next to it, clear-cut.

"Maybe we just can," he says, and presses down.

The melodic ringing echoes twofold back to Basti and he hears Metze's steps, too. Then the door's sturdy wooden frame swings back.

"Hey," Basti says, clicking the cell shut and sliding it into his jacket's pocket. Metze just stares at him with his mouth open, but nothing comes out. He's wearing sleek black trousers and a white shirt, the first two buttons open – and goddamn, he is _sexy_, Basti thinks.

"Basti?" is the first word Metze manages, still holding the cell to his ear.

Basti shrugs, smiling slightly. "The one and only, Metze." He nods towards the entrance. "Going to let me in or do I have to beg or bribe you?"

"It's _really_ you," Metze breathes, the warmbrown eyes drinking him in, unguarded and raw. Basti hears a loud clatter as the cell bounces off the hardwood floor but then he's pulled in, the door's resounding 'bang' only a dim echo as Metze's hands are on him, _around_ him and he doesn't have any time to react but to – give in.

And that he does, giving as good as getting, mashing his nose into Metze's neck, mouthing wet words that he doesn't remember on Metze's skin, their bodies coiled against each other, and it's just when he's pushing his fingers into the short dark brown waves that he hears muffled sounds coming from the other man. Something like sobbing.

"Christoph?", he whispers, and the arms around him tighten in answer. Basti nuzzles the damp patch on Metze's neck. He can smelltaste a faint trace of the aftershave Metze uses, Boss, and presses a small kiss farther up on Metze's neck and then on the jaw, and the cheekbone, and then he's brushing over Metze's lips.

It's as if they just _fit_, Basti thinks as his hands blindly roam over Metze's back, feeling the muscles' play under the thin linen shirt and when Metze's hands find his ass in retribution, Basti presses even closer, moaning softly into their kiss.

He feels alive for the first time since he watched Metze drive away from the hotel.

*

It's still as fucking _perfect_ as always. Basti's eyes are still closed, his chest heaving, the sweat slowly drying on his back. He's lying half atop Metze, sweat and semen sticky on their skin. Metze's warm breath fans over his hair, and it's as if neither one of them dares to disturb the fragile peace their passionate lovemaking resulted in. Basti feels the edge of a condom wrapper pricking his hip, but doesn't move.

They always end up reinforcing their bond in the most intimate way – and fuck if it doesn't get better with every time. Basti's arm is slung over Metze's chest, rising with every breath of Metze's. Bits from what went down slowly surface, floating up like exotic jellyfish in the sea; how Metze's shaking hands tore him out of his clothes – Basti's favourite shirt is now missing several buttons –, how they stumbled over the first step upstairs, Basti hissing through his teeth as pain spiked up in his knee, but when Metze bent over him and rubbed him through his trousers, harddesperate, while bruising his lips with a fierce kiss, Basti had forgotten about the knee readily enough and somehow they did manage it up the stairs, losing clothes all the way. Finally, they tumbled onto a king-size bed in a room to the left.

And then Basti suddenly remembers with shocking clarity that one moment as Metze came to lie under him, naked and arching up with want, and Basti, already achingly hard, had to stop – because this _was_ beauty; not of the common kind like a sunset on the beach, the sun's fiery flames licking over the waves and colouring them in the most brilliant redyelloworange hues as a last desperate rearing up before fading into the sea.

No, this was _real_ beauty of a kind that was almost ethereal in its pure carnality, and Basti doesn't know if he had whispered something, but he still remembers that Metze's smile had lit up, gloriousbright, and Basti had bent down and closed his mouth softly over this smile, stealing it.

The room's natural light is dimming, grey shadows in the corner spreading over the pristinely white walls, the one to the right decorated with a row of pictures, ebony-framed, depicting raw, lone landscapes that are utterly foreign to Basti, places that only Metze knows and that have some meaning to him. The woollen coverlet that Metze threw over both of them is a creamy colour, almost ivory – Tina would know its exact name, Basti thinks and closes his eyes, swallowing a sigh. He feels Metze's hand resting loosely on his hip tightening, and then Metze asks, "Basti, why…?", stopping but it's enough.

Basti sighs, his hand smoothing over Metze's shoulder, imprinting the feel of muscle and bones under skin stretched taut to memory again. "I fucked up," he murmurs. "I was out of my mind, not functioning, and … well, this is where I ended up." A shaky laugh escapes his mouth and Metze's hand starts to rub small circles on his back, soothing him and Basti hooks his leg around Metze's, anchoring himself to his best friend.

"It's okay, Basti," Metze says, quietly. "It's okay."

Basti feels Metze's warmth seeping through him, enveloping him. There's so much to say, to tell, but he hasn't got the words. But it doesn't really matter. At least not _now_.

And when he slips into sleep, it's with a content smile on his face.

*

Yawning, Basti almost has to physically force his eyelids open; it feels as if they're glued together. A short moment of disorientation comes over him when he realizes that he isn't in Lahrbach, but somewhere else – at _Metze's_. Whose arm is slung over Basti's chest, and whose breaths are stirring the hair on his nape. And the warm furnace behind him, yes, that's Christoph, no mistaking him. Basti can testify to this fact just by feeling the outline of the torso pressing against his back, the legs curving around his ass with their calves tangled up.

He feels safe. It's … something, that Basti can't define, something that goes deeper than mere comfort and protection. And like a reaffirmation, the arm around his middle tightens, as if Metze, who is still sleeping, wants to reassure himself that he's really got Basti in his arms, and he smiles, sliding his hand under the cover to palm Metze's.

_'Is this what you want?'_ a voice whispers, coldsharp. Basti turns around slowly until he's face to face with Metze. In the grey twilight of dawn Metze's face is lax with sleep. Basti's hand rises to caress Metze's cheek, faint stubble scraping over his fingertips, and he sees the lines in Metze's face clearly. He still remembers the 20-year-old Metze, just as lanky as he is now, but with brighter eyes and a readier smile, the eyes not having seen too much yet. And that hadn't changed much over the course of the next few years when Basti had gotten to know Metze better, more than the word 'friends' implied.

But when the first shadows appeared, when Metze had fought hard to get back to where he had been, drawing back into himself to shut out the world with its demands and expectations, Basti had doggedly stuck to Metze, dragging him out to places and more often than not, these trips ended with them in Metze's flat, or, more specifically, in Metze's bed, reliving the memories of each other's bodies as if this were the last time, desperately clutching each other to keep themselves sane.

Just like they did yesterday; and it seems to Basti as if they're keeping each other safely in place, preventing either one from drifting away. Anchoring. Yes, that's what Metze did – and does with him, and yet it can turn into something different, like a pull, a terribly strong one that Basti can't halt of his own volition. When Metze had turned up at his hotel, Basti feared that he had drifted too far away and that it would need brute force to reel him in again, to become Metze's Basti again. But then, somehow it had happened with frightening ease, as if he had been only cut loose and was in need of just one firmsharp tug – nothing more.

"Basti?" Sleepysatisfied, and he smiles at Metze, his fingers repeating the slow caresses of the graceful outline of Metze's slightly stubbly cheekbone.

"Good morning," he says, and Metze's arm tightens around him, pulling him closer.

"I'm not dreaming, then," Metze says, his lips curving up into a slight smile, overlaid with something Basti doesn't recognize at first, but then he does and he presses a kiss onto the one corner of Metze's mouth where it lingers.

"No, and you better not be," he grins. "Would've been a terrible waste of time on my part."

"Don't forget the energy," Metze says, a glint lightening up the warm brown hue of his half-lidded eyes. "But if you'd be willing to reassure my feeble memory…"

Basti laughs and raises himself up over Metze, legs slidingdetangling, his palms planted on either side of Metze's head.

"I'd be more than just willing," he quips, looking down into the shadow entrapped between their bodies, just about making out his own cock slowly rising and filling with blood at the sight of Metze's pale longsleek body laid out under him, the cock resting in the curve of the hipbone, already semi-hard.

"Glad to hear that," Metze says, and then he's drawing down Basti's head and they kiss, sleepysour breath mixing but Basti doesn't mind, and his hand sneaks down Metze's chest, feeling every rib bone under his fingertips, the soft skin yielding to his gentle touch.

Basti's fingers follow the thin happy trail down to where Metze's cock surges against the tentative touch, and then it's just a matter of relearning, remembering, and Metze spreads his legs, offering himself up to Basti with a smile on his lips, lazydesire tingeing it and his eyes full of knowledge about what's going to happen and readily expecting it, appreciating it.

Basti's fingers search for that perfect hold on Metze's cock, curling around it slowly, the familiar softhardness hotwarm to his touch, and he meets Metze's body with his own, reconnecting. He explores Metze's mouth with his tongue, greedily committing every nook and crevice to his memory while his hand's falling back into that age-old rhythm that he's perfected in all these nights in the hotel rooms on away games with the BVB.

Riiiiiiiiing.

The shrill noise is enough to make him stop, lifting his head and searching for the noise which came from Metze's nightstand in form of an innocuous looking alarm clock, something smoothelegant in silvery hues.

"Oh shit," Metze groans, wiping the lazy arousal and the last vestiges of drowsy sleep off his face. "Work. There's this fucking huge advert campaign going on and I need to be there, I'm on the board and, well… damn it."

"You can't call in sick?" Basti asks, slumping down onto Metze and carefully edging his hand out from between them.

"I'd love to," Metze says, "but then, you didn't exactly announce your arrival in time for me to take off some time, so."

Basti nods. "Yeah. It's okay, really."

"Is it?" Metze asks.

"Yeah. I mean, – I, well, I'm taking off only about a week, it was what my father suggested – he's taking over the hotel for the time. And you told me about your work before, so I'm not expecting you to drop everything at my beck and call. But actually, I didn't think all that much," Basti says.

"A week, then?" Leave it to Metze to pick up the one thing that matters most to them.

Time.

As if they ever had enough. When they were still young – sometimes Basti can't believe that they actually were _that_ young – they had thought or rather, felt, that all the time in the world was theirs and there'd still be more than enough, more than they'd ever need, and so they had wasted it – sometimes in very enjoyable ways, sometimes in dumb and stupid ways but it had been time spent _together_.

Now even that precious commodity is in short supply, but then, whose fault is it now? His fault? Metze's fault? They have vastly different lives now, him with his hotel and his family and Metze with his job, with supporting different charities, one of them something to do with streetworking, one's RoterKeil, of course, even after all this time, and Basti's still a member in name, donating a rather outrageous amount of money every year, and another's about mobbing at school – or something school-related, at least. And these are just the ones he remembers.

Basti sighs and rolls over, releasing Metze of his weight. "Don't you want to go to work?"

He knows that he's evading the topic, but this time, Metze seems to let it slide, raising himself up and bending forward, yawning heartily.

"Want, no, but have to, yes," he says before throwing off the cover and getting up, and Basti drinks him in in all his glory – pale skin covered with slight fur, thick on the calves and thighs but tapering out further upwards, the beautiful swell of the ass and then the back with its beautiful lines, gracefulelegant, peppered sparsely with dark moles. Basti once declared he'd play 'Connect-the-dots' on Metze's back with a permanent marker, but lacking it, he'd do it with his tongue instead. And if the dots would always lead down, right to that small brownish mole placed just at the start of Metze's asscrack, well, it was always worth the gasps and the white knuckles while Basti worked towards his goal.

He's still smiling at the memory, wondering if he'll get to re-enact it when he hears Metze's slightly distorted voice from the bathroom next door: "Want to join me in the shower?"

*

He's barely noticing the sleekwhite interior interrupted only by metallicgleaming apparatuses as Metze opens the door to the shower cabin. He's spattered all over with water drops, a sight familiar from past team showers and more intimate, shared ones, and then his mouth is on Basti's, hoteager, and suddenly Basti finds himself in the spacey shower, gasping as hot water pours down onto him, but then he loses himself in Metze's urgent touches, smoothing over his back, curving around his hips and grasping his ass.

Basti has to blink against the water's onslaught which is plastering Metze's dark hair to his forehead. Rivulets stream over Metze's shoulders, interrupted by water drops and creating an irregular flow that gets even more distorted when Basti's hands search for hold as Metze's hand has found his cock, pumping it to fullness again. He evokes a fire in Basti that can't be quenched by mundane water.

When Metze's fingers slide further downwards to cup his testicles, Basti lifts his leg to hook it around Metze's back, allowing him further access. He hisses as a finger breaches him although it hasn't been that long, and even that first time after six years hadn't hurt that much.

Metze's finger in him is something foreign and yet welcomed, unerringly searching for that one place that will make him go crazy – ah, there it is, and now Basti bites his lip, scrunching his eyes shut, and he knows that he's leaving marks on Metze's shoulders with his nails but doesn't care a fucking whit.

The finger slips out and Basti opens his eyes, still caught up in that dim haze, "wha…" and Metze looms over him, coiled and ready to pounce, and Basti hauls him down to himself, aiming to erase that urgency from his mien by kissing him, open-mouthed and their tongues tangle, a wild dance that leaves them breathless and yet wanting more.

When two fingers slip back into him, the slight pain is almost an exquisite caress and he edges closer to Metze, the water's torrent obliterating every sense of his surroundings except for Metze's body hard against his, the knuckles of his right hand scraping over Basti's lower abdomen as he's jerking him off.

"Want you," Metze groans, his fingers thrusting harder and Basti shuddermoans, hotwhite flares bursting in front of his eyes and every sane thought is erased from his mind save for an overwhelming, "yes, yes, yes, oh god, _yes_, do it," and a warm mouth closes over his and he's being hoisted up, his back flat against the tiles. His ankles cross on Metze's lower back as Metze's moving him around to get in position.

Basti's hand caresses Metze's neck, his fingers diving into the wet strands. His achinghot dick trapped in between their stomachs is a constant distraction and the two fingers in his ass are just enough of a stimulant that he could get off with some more hard thrusts but he doesn't want that. He wants Metze himself, he wants to feel _him_, and so he doesn't protest when the fingers pull out.

Metze spits into his hand; apparently his shower isn't outfitted for more carnal desires and Basti grins, "Short of lube?" only to have Metze chuckle breathlessly, a thin trail hanging off his mouth that Basti's finger catches, wiping it off.

"I think I should contribute to the effort, " he says, winking, and does so, too, looking into Metze's warmbrown eyes alight with love and desire and friendship – or rather, a great big feeling that encompasses all three and is only missing a fitting word. It's never only love, never only desire or friendship. Never has been.

Basti nods, not saying a word but knowing that Metze can read it in his eyes. How much Basti wants this, wants _him_. And that's all that matters now. Right now, in this moment, and when Basti feels the slickblunt head of Metze's dick pressing against his entrance, he doesn't close his eyes, wanting Metze to know, to _see_, and the only sign he gives when Metze's pulling him down on himself, is a sharp intake of breath, his fingers tightening in Metze's hair, but their eyes are still locked.

Metze repays this in kind, only biting down on his lower lip when he sheathes himself fully in Basti, his fingernails digging into Basti's hips and then he starts a slow rhythm that is almost bordering on painful in its intensity.

"Fuck, Metze," Basti whimpers, wanting to savour the moment for as long as he can, but his body is intent on quick completion and his heels push into Metze's sides, slipping on the wet skin as his hands dig into the sinews and muscles on Metze's shoulders. Basti's skin feels raw from scraping over the tiles but he doesn't care at all, caught up in the quickening rhythm of Metze's pistoning hips. His prostate is hit again and again, Metze having aligned his cock perfectly and Basti feels like he's a fly on the fishing rod, thrown out and away into the air, into the bright blinding sun, and then back, but never let loose, and he wants it to finish, the throb of his cock in the hotwettight space between their coiled bodies almost painful, and he _needs_…

… and with a hard thrust, teeth scraping on Basti's jaw, Metze comes, a harsh guttural moan – almost a scream, and Basti feels him shuddering heavily.

"Fuck," Metze breathes, chest heaving. Basti feels the softening cock slide out of him and then his feet are touching the ground again, Metze slumped against him, the harsh puffs of air drowning in the water pouring down on them.

His cock is still caught in between them and still aching to get off, but just as Basti wants to slide his hand in between them to finish himself off, Metze's hand closes around his wrist. "No," his best friend says, "let me."

With just these words, he drops to his knees in front of Basti, his fingers curving around the jut of Basti's hipbones, holding himself and Basti in place, and then Basti's eyes roll heavenward as Metze swallows him, the hotwettightness more than he can stand, and then he needs to thrust just once into Metze's throat to come harder than he ever has before.

*

In the end, they have to make do with too-strong coffee and buttered toast as time's running short. "Really, to have jam a year past its best-by date in the fridge…" – "You wouldn't believe me if I said it was for research?" – "Fat chance."

A hasty kiss with Metze's promise to call if he would be late follows and just before he hurries out the door, he turns and a key ring lands on the table. "If you ever want to rectify the sad state of affairs of my fridge…" Metze grins and then he's gone, effectively cutting off Basti's retort.

The coffee in Basti's cup has now cooled down some, but the heavy amount of sugar he dumped in doesn't really make it more palatable. He's not really a coffee guy; he prefers strong black tea with a dash of milk. His fingers push the toast crumbs on the table together, forming heaps and streets and he sighs, feeling goose bumps crawl up his thighs, for the kitchen opens into the big living room and one of the glass doors that lead into the garden is half-open. That early in the morning the grass outside is still dew-dropped and the air is cool but tinged with a sweet fragrance.

Basti slides off the bar stool and walks down the two steps to the living room area, feeling warmth seep up from the dark brown tiles. Floor heating, of course, Metze always has cold feet, and Basti has to smile involuntarily, remembering all the times he complained about it in bed.

One wall has a row of pictures, all in the same ebony frames, sleeksimple, and he recognizes Metze's family. An old picture of a small Metze with his brothers and his then-not-yet-separated parents is the first, followed up by more recent ones. Malte is the most prevalent: two, no, three pictures with the youngest Metzelder son, lankygrinning. In one of them he has his arms around Metze and Sebastian, laughing into the camera, white teeth gleaming and the strong features even more pronounced. Basti touches the cold glass hesitantly, tracing Metze's face, half hidden in the shadows, a small smile playing on the lips and the eyes aren't looking directly at the camera, but rather off it.

Then there's the last picture and with an almost violent start Basti realizes that it isn't a picture of Metze and Malte as he thought at first glance, but one of Metze and _himself_. It's an old picture – well, not really that old, it must be from around 2006, as he remembers that cord jacket on Metze from back then. It's taken somewhere inside, maybe a restaurant, maybe a café, and he's sitting next to Metze who's smiling quietly, bent forward with his elbows on his knees. He's looking straight at Basti who's laughing, or just about to start to laugh, perhaps at something Metze said. Maybe it was an interview? Something's off about himself; he looks… well, different.

And then it hits Basti.

He looks _happy_.

So damned happy. Then the picture blurs and Basti chokes down a sob while his fingers unconsciously trace the frame until his right finger comes off with a strange stickiness. And this is when Basti realizes that his finger scraped over a small remnant of a brand new price sticker, gleaming white against the dark wood.

*

He's got everything – the basics and some fancy stuff as he wants to try that one recipe for a casserole with eggplant instead of zucchini, but as Tina abhors the former, he never got around to making it until now. He has discovered a good wine seller in the neighbourhood, too. Metze seems to have lived mostly on take-out as the heap of leaflets from pizza services and Asian restaurants on the counter in his kitchen proves. It's always hard to cook for just one but now Basti can do the cooking, and it isn't as if he has anything else to do while Metze's at work.

He's busy stuffing the groceries into cupboards and on shelves and in the fridge and simultaneously searching for scales that he can use for weighing stuff and a frying pan when his cell rings.

"Hey you," Metze says, and Basti has to smile – he sounds so ridiculously happy that Basti can hear it even from just these two words. "Hey yourself," he retorts, digging through the bag to search for the sour cream, "going to be late, yeah?"

"Yes," Metze says, "but no later than seven, I hope. I'll probably be finished with wrapping up six-ish, but you know how it is…"

"Yeah, unexpected things cropping up and all that," Basti says, now pinning the cell between shoulder and ear to have his hands free to open the cupboard. "By the way, where the hell do you keep your scales and a pan? Or two? Don't tell me you never fry eggs or potatoes."

There's the faint shuffling of paper and Metze's muffled voice. Basti strains to hear him, but then he's back, "Sorry, new trainee… yeah, pans, you should find them in that big drawer under the cooker, the first on top, and as for scales, um…" – "Never mind," Basti says, having found the item in question, "you didn't hide them that well, fortunately. So, eggplant casserole sound good to you?"

"Eggplant? Yeah, why not," Metze says. "As long as you remember my love-hate relationship with garlic."

"Got it covered," Basti says, mouth quirking up in a smile as he remembers Metze complaining at his favourite Italian restaurant years ago because according to him, his sauce wasn't delicately seasoned with garlic but practically _reeked_ of it. "Wasn't planning to use any garlic, anyway. So, everything okay at your end?"

"More or less," Metze says, and then he's chuckling. "Well, some colleagues here remarked on my exceptionally good mood and the braver ones amongst them put it down to a night well spent, along with sly suggestions to keep it up."

Basti laughs, dropping mincemeat in a bowl and sprinkling pepper very liberally over it. "Well, they seem to have guessed right, haven't they?"

"Pretty much, yeah," Metze says, "and I've got to be off to another meeting, but – well, I'm really glad. That you are here. Really. Ehm… see you later, yeah? Bye," and then there's only the annoying beeping that tells Basti that it's of no use to listen to his cell anymore and he puts it down on the table, still smiling. He's heard what Metze wanted to say but couldn't.

It's a reason as good as any for why he's whistling a merry tune putting the eggplant casserole in the oven about an hour later. Straightening up, Basti surveys the kitchen – not that much of a mess, lucky him, easy to clean up, and then he can set up the plates on the big table in the living room, and he did see wine glasses somewhere here, too, and napkins were in this drawer over there –

_What the fuck?_ He isn't playing set-up-house here, or is he? Playacting at being a couple, being Metze's, what, boyfriend, partner, the one he comes home to? Basti exhales deeply, his hands gripping the edge of the table hard, and he looks down – the wedding ring, glinting warmgolden, reminding him of what he had wanted and pursued.

And now it means something that… yes, what does it mean now to him? Basti groans and then he's twisting at his finger, nails scraping on skin and then the ring hurtles through the air, a goldenshimmering arc before it hits the wall and lands on the floor with a faint tingle.

_Fuck. Fuck._ Basti slides down the front of the stove, pressing his palms to his eyes. It didn't solve _anything_ at all, coming here, coming to Metze. He wishes he could go back, turn time back – just like you do with a BluRay movie where you just push the 'backwards' button and then bullets fly out of people's bodies, blood draws inward and wounds close up smoothly, things that were a smashed mess on the floor just hurtle up and become whole and then land in people's hands and everything's good again. Safe.

But your own life doesn't come with a remote.

*

He's sitting in the garden on the grass with his back against the big elm tree, eyes closed, and the last rays of the sun warming his face. He doesn't open his eyes as he hears someone nearing.

"Basti?" Metze's standing in front of him, the jacket open and the white shirt rumpled with the tie loosened.

"They finally let you off, what?" Basti squints up at him.

"Yeah, that they did." And then Metze sits down next to him, the long legs stretching out next to Basti's. "Something you're missing."

The ring. In Metze's palm, gleaming in the evening sun.

"Thanks," Basti says, and the ring is warm to his touch when he slides it into his shirt's front pocket, the weight barely noticeable.

"I turned off the stove."

Basti nods, and then he takes Metze's hand, closing his fingers around it as Metze turns his so that their palms meet and their fingers entangle. Neither one says anything.

At least not until Basti leans his head back, the tree's bark scraping on his neck. "Just – why? I mean – why did all this have to happen?"

Metze doesn't reply for a long time but doesn't loosen his hold on Basti's hand. When Basti turns to look at him, Metze seems calm, as if nothing ever would touch him, a faraway look in his eyes. Then he sighs. "Maybe - just because. Does there always have to be a reason?"

Basti shrugs. "It'd be nice."

"Yeah. But did we ever have a choice?" Metze asks, turning and looking straight at Basti, the wrinkles around his eyes somehow more prominent now although he isn't smiling. "Like," and now a slow smile steals itself on his lips, "did I ever have a choice about being your friend? About falling for you, first without noticing it, then," and he shrugs, looking down at their joined hands on Basti's thigh, "just... just really _seeing_ you, and then, well. The whole fucking package. Did I, ever?"

Basti looks at him. Doesn't know what to say – but just when he opens his mouth, Metze chuckles. "No, I don't think so. And I guess I wouldn't have chosen otherwise." He shakes his head. "Looks like I'm fucked."

"Well, if you are - then I am, too. Because I wouldn't have chosen anything else, either," Basti says, quietly.

Metze raises his eyebrow. "Do you know what this makes us?"

"No, what?"

"Two sorry fucktards who can't get their lives back straight on." And then Basti laughs, like he hasn't done for a long time and he's joined by Metze's deep chuckle and it's as perfect and as screwed up as they are and he feels as if he can't stop. Won't.

*

It's Saturday, and Metze has to stop by at work because they've got a huge campaign going on now ("… too many egos around and everyone wants a piece of the cake – the rate this is going, the proverbial cake should be one of these wedding cakes with four or five stories so that everyone'll be satisfied, really-" and then Basti had shut up Metze's bitching with a long tea-with-milk-flavoured kiss), so Basti has snooped through Metze's shelves for something readable and ended up with a book by the former drummer of Sportfreunde Stiller.

A cup of tea is on the table right next to him, sweetened with honey just the way Basti likes it. Soon he's engrossed in the book, chuckling at the right places and from time to time his hand snatches a caramel-glazed cookie from the plate next to the cup.

Suddenly there's a faint ringing in the air. Damn. His cell. The book flung on the floor, Basti scrambles to get to the coats in the hall in time and then he's holding his cell in his hand, pushing the dial key, and –

"Hi Dad!" a cheery voice chirps, and Basti has to smile. "Hey Andy," he says, leaning back against the wall. "How are you, little buddy?"

"I'm fine and I've been helping Grandpa with the tree house, and yesterday I almost hit my thumb with a hammer and there were pancakes with cream and cherries, and then I…"

Basti walks back into the living room with his son's incessant babbling in his ear, the smile still on his lips. Andy's a good kid, and Basti's very proud of him. "… and then the hedgehog curled up into itself, like a spiky football, and Granddad said…"

Ten minutes later, having just ended the call, he hopes Andy didn't notice anything awkward about his short answers and his curt dismissal when his son asked if he wanted to talk to mom. To Tina. Basti sighs, sliding his cell shut and plops on the couch. He wants to curl up into himself, just like the hedgehog his son told him about, to forget everything about the outside world waiting for him to get his act together.

When Metze comes home earlier than he said, smiling broadly at Basti and planting a kiss on his cheek as he looks over Basti's shoulder into the pot where the lentil soup is bubbling merrily, Basti decides to not tell him about the call. Instead, he says, "Secret recipe, handed down in my family for generations, so consider yourself lucky."

"I'd even consider myself lucky if that was just canned soup," Metze says, winking at him.

After dinner, they settle down in front of the TV with Metze's arm on the back of the couch and from time to time Metze's thumb strokes Basti's neck while they're watching a documentary – something about India and the crumbling caste system, but Basti isn't really paying attention to it, not when Metze's that close, warmpliant, relaxed and Basti can feel him sneaking little glances at him from time to time, pricklingwarm on his skin.

Their thighs are touching, and even the wool of Metze's trousers and the thick denim of Basti's jeans don't diminish the shared heat. But it isn't an urgent heat; rather, it's a comfortable heat, born out of a friendship going on for years and a love blossoming under its cover, steadily and unwavering until neither of them could imagine any other way it could be. Was.

But now they _are_ again, Basti thinks, smiling. Now they're together again after six years. And he realizes he's happier than he has been in a long time. This thought should frighten him, but it doesn't.

And so he turns to kiss Metze, cupping his jaw, and Metze reciprocates readily, their tongues tangling in an everlasting dance. His hands flutter onto Basti's shoulders, skating around the ticklish ears and evoking goose bumps on Basti's neck.

Basti lets his hand wander down Metze's throat, following the sinews moving under the taut and lightly stubbled skin until his fingers trace the hollow between the collarbones gently. The first button downwards slides open easily and the others follow suit.

"Basti…" Metze breathes into their kiss and then his hands are handling Basti deftly, moving him around into his lap and settling into a firm grip on Basti's ass.

To pull the shirttails out of Metze's trousers takes less than a second, Basti having settled his long legs around Metze's hips and then Metze arches forward, deepening the kiss and shaking out of his shirt but Basti has to help him yank off the shirt off one arm. "Patience has its rewards," Metze chuckles breathlessly, but his hands tugging at Basti's shirt belie his words. Basti doesn't call him on it, though, as he's too busy helping Metze get even, sneaking open-mouthed kisses here and there when he gets the chance.

When their bare chests touch in a hardtight hug with Metze delivering sharp nips to the jugular as his hands roam across Basti's back, not an iota of space is left between them save for sweaty heat fevered by passion and Basti's almost too far gone to whisper, "to the bedroom," but as Metze pushes against him, "yeah, yes," he must've managed it.

The short distance up the stairs is interspersed with lots of groping amidst lewd remarks and laughter and when Metze presses him against the wall next to the bedroom door, melting his length against Basti's and kissing him hard, it takes all of Basti's willpower to not just give into the urge, but he has a plan.

And when he's got Metze lying on the bed, spreadeagled after Basti's shove, laughing surprised, said plan is set in motion. Basti crawls onto the bed and lowers himself onto Metze in the V of his legs, swallowing a groan as their crotches touch, Metze's erection straining against his own. He catches Metze's moan with his mouth and they settle into a drawn-out, passionate kiss, rocking slightly against each other in a slow rhythm.

When Metze's fingers trace the seam of Basti's jeans, slipping underneath and into his asscrack, Basti remembers his plan and ends the kiss, breathing heavily. "Wait," he says, looking into the darkening eyes of his best friend, seeing the flushed face and the wetswollen lips, the tongue darting out and licking, and then he raises himself up but not before he kisses Metze again, not able to resist.

His fingers feel clumsy and wooden all of a sudden when he wants nothing more than to get the damned trousers off, but when Metze catches on and helps him, it doesn't take long until the offending item sails through the air to fall to the floor in a graceless heap, followed shortly by Basti's jeans and his briefs as Metze's going commando – as always.

Metze's hands stutter over sweatslick skin, delve into folds, smooth over sharp curves and gentle jittering limbs and Basti arches blindly into every touch, his own hands going on a thorough journey of Metze's body, the ripples of the spine as familiar to him as the jut of the collarbones and the softness found in the back of the knees.

Their hungry kisses get sloppier the more fervently their hands roam over each other's bodies, and it's just MetzeandBasti, the world around them falling away into oblivion, but –

"Stop," Basti breathes, entangling his fingers with Metze's and restraining his best friend for the time being, "not yet – turn over, around," and Metze obeys readily when Basti releases him, lowering his head onto his crossed arms when he has settled onto his stomach.

He's _beautiful_.

It's not the first time that this thought has crossed Basti's mind, but never with such a vengeance and he draws in a breath sharply, caught up in the pale swoop of Metze's back, the shoulder muscles bunching up and tightening, the dark hair gleaming with sweat at the nape and –

Basti bends down to lick over the delicate ear shell, flushed red, and when he feels Metze twitching, he can't resist a grin at his best friend's ticklishness, but moves onto the neck, tasting sweat, saltyfresh and then he bites softly into the tight muscle, careful to not leave marks.

"_Basti_…" Metze moans, and Basti plants a kiss on the abused place before he scoots lower, wetly mouthing the ribcage's taut skin, twirling his tongue around the first prominent mole, then the next as his leaking cock slides into the ridge between Metze's thighs.

"Spread your legs," Basti whispers, and when he has settled into the space between Metze's legs, his best friend is laid out under him like the finest buffet, rosy asscheeks dusted slightly with fine hair and when he blows gently over them, they twitch and Metze groans, the muscles in his back tightening up.

"Hurry up – I won't last long," he hisses and Basti chuckles breathlessly. "Me neither, don't worry," and then he's on to the next mole, and then it's just three more, kissingmouthing each one until he's parting the cheeks with his hands, his thumbs smoothing over the inside.

The musky smell tinged with fresh sweat is something he never could resist, and when Basti licks a broad swipe across the furl, he hears a muffled groan and Metze's thighs spread even wider, granting him more access and Basti is quick to use this to his advantage. His tongue spreads saliva around the hole, letting some trickle down into it at which he feels Metze bucking in his grip and Basti knows that Metze'll have a new set of finger-shaped bruises by tomorrow.

A broad swipe again, tasting the musk and then the tongue traces the furls justsogently and Metze's _whimpering_, his whole body shuddering, and sweat blossoms under Basti's hands, making his grip even slipperier.

But now his tongue pushes against the ring of muscle, probing and delving, and it's getting harder to keep Metze in place when he's rocking heedlessly back against him, his back arching up like a beast in heat and Basti can't hear anything except for the rustle of the bed linen and Metze's loud moans and his own cock jerks wethotly against his abdomen.

He cups Metze's balls in his hand, squeezing them gently and then his fingers curl around the hard shaft already slippery with precum and sweat. Metze bears down on him and Basti feels his cock swell, the hot head throbbing under his fingers.

"I'm co –" and then it's too late, as Basti has chosen this moment to push his tongue into Metze's ass, past the loosened resistance of the muscle ring, and he feels wet hotness spurt onto his fingers as he pumps Metze's cock, feeling the lanky body thrashing under him, legs jerking. He then loosens his grip and rests his cheek on the full mound, gently stroking the sweat-sheened skin.

"God," Metze sighs when the last shudders run through his body and Basti moves up on the bed until he's kneeling and when he closes his wetsticky hand around his cock, some short pulls and _fuck_, he's almost too close –

"What are you waiting for?" Metze's looking over his shoulder at him, hair plastered to his forehead and grinning, his eyes alight with love. Basti bites down on his lip – he's too fucking _beautiful_ – and smoothes his other hand over Metze's back, following the graceful curve of his spine, and then Metze raises himself up onto his elbows and knees, readying himself for Basti to fuck him.

Basti swallows as he edges closer, the head of his cock sliding into the tight cleft. Damn. "Lube," he grits, settling his hands on Metze's hips after swiping them dry on the bed linen, and Metze digs under the other pillow and then a little black plastic bottle lands next to Metze's knee, the same one that they used two days ago, and very liberally at that, and today's no exception – though it's more difficult to get the rather stickyslippery cap off.

But then his lubed fingers sink into Metze's ass, evoking a grunt from Metze who's rocking back, "go on," some more thrusts to ensure a smooth passage and then Basti gets himself ready, lube dripping from his cock as he angles it and then – he's _in_, a long hard thrust, his balls slapping against Metze's thighs as he gets into the rhythm of hardfast fucking, moans and grunts reverberating in the air and Metze's body warmpliant in his hard grip.

When the first whitefoaming crest crashes into him, he thrusts deep into Metze, and again, and _again_ – and then it's wave after wave crashing into him, shattering him to the bone and he dissolves into the bubbling foam, slumping over Metze as the last waves wash over him.

He doesn't know which of them then whispered, "I love you."

*

Metze's at church for mass and then he's set to take part in a sponsored event with underprivileged kids afterwards and so Basti has taken the opportunity to get out of the house. He still does need someone other than Metze to talk to about the whole mess.

So he had called up Lars, who's also still living in Dortmund, working with the BVB as an assistant trainer for the amateur team. From what Basti has heard, mainly thanks to Flo, he's pretty good with the boys and the people love him. After all, why wouldn't they? Lars is a true Borusse down to the bone, always faithful to the club, even in bad times. People don't forget such an unwavering dedication.

Lars had said that he could meet up this afternoon and that he was happy to hear from Basti.

And this is how Basti ends up waiting in a little pub for Lars' arrival, his fingers tapping an unruly melody on the tabletop. The waiter doesn't recognize him, only nods at his order of a Veltins and serves him readily enough, weaving his bulk around the tables scattered in the room with a grace learnt through years and years of bartending.

"Kelly!" Basti looks up and grins, getting up from his seat, and then he gets hugged with Lars laughing and thumping his back. "Long time no see, eh?"

"Yeah," Basti agrees just as the owner puts a beer in front of Lars, too. "You still look pretty good, too."

Lars chuckles and shrugs out of his coat, draping it carelessly over the chair's back. "I don't change that much in two years – it's been two years, right? Flo's birthday party?"

Basti nods. "Yeah, that one. I know I promised that I'd keep in touch, but –"

"Ah, well, that's life. But, how come you're here in Dortmund? What do I owe the honour to?" Lars lifts the beer glass to his lips and downs almost a third of it in a go, licking the foam off of his upper lip, smacking his lips a little.

Basti smiles and raises his glass in a silent cheer, too. The beer tastes good – freshly drawn from the tap, it should. "Oh, just driving through, nothing special."

A little white lie, but he hopes Lars will pick up the hint and won't pry into it. They proceed to talk about this and that, easy superficial topics like the birth of Lars' girl twins about a year ago, which Basti hadn't heard about, and Basti's hotel business, and what Flo and Roman are up to these days, all the while nursing the glass of beer each and then switching to water as both of them still have to drive.

Lars looks at his watch - the same Rolex from back then when he still was at the BVB, Basti recognizes it - and shakes his head. "Damn. Time really does run - I've got to pick up the twins from the day nursery in about an hour, Jana would rip off my head if I forget them," he chuckles. "But then, you do know how it is, don't you, Basti? How's your family these days, anyway?"

"Andy's great," Basti says, smiling wistfully. "Really great. And Tina's - she's the best mom he could have, really. I don't know what I would do without her," he says, looking down and feeling the smile getting heavier.

"I see," Lars says, and then he motions to the hovering waiter that he's ready to pay, "well, this time's on me, okay?"

Basti puts back his wallet, nodding. "Yeah, fine. Next time it'll be my turn, then."

"But don't let it turn into two more years before we meet each other again, yeah? I'll hold you to that, you know," Lars laughs as he pulls out some bills, motioning to the waiter to keep the rest. "It's been good to chat with you."

"Same here," Basti says, "and don't forget my regards to your partner and your kids, will you?" he says as he follows Lars out the door into the sunshine, squinting against the brightness.

"Don't worry," Lars says, leaning against the side of his Toyota Avensis that he had parked right in front of the pub's entrance. "But, Basti -" he starts, all traces of his easy smile gone, his eyes not meeting Basti's anymore, but after his Adam's apple moves up heavily, he continues, "I'm not judging you, but if you're cheating on Tina, I hope you know what you're doing."

Ice-cold water instead of blood coursing in his veins, and Basti's only thought is _fuck, fuck, fuck_, but what comes out of his mouth is, "Cheating?" Indignant, defiant and he feels the heat rising in his cheeks.

Lars raises his hands in the universal gesture of surrender. "I'm just – I just put the clues together, and, hell, Basti." He touches his index finger, "you evaded all questions about what exactly you're doing here in Dortmund," the middle finger, "you scarcely said anything about Tina, one of the most important people in your life, if not _the_ most," the ring finger, "you've taken off your wedding ring," the little finger and if Basti isn't mistaken, there's a hint of a wry smile tucked away in the one corner of Lars's mouth, "and there's a rather visible hickey on your neck."

Basti just stares at him. "Shit." Only now he realizes that he _has_ said it out loud. The ice is pooling in his stomach and his legs suddenly feel like rubber, threatening to give out on him and he slumps against the tiled wall of the pub.

"Listen –" and Lars breaks off, sighing. "Like I said, I'm not judging you – I don't even know you well enough to do so. I just hope that you're doing it for a really good reason." His light brown eyes rest on Basti, concern and compassion in them.

Basti sighs and shakes his head. "Fuck. I didn't - I mean," he shakes his head, "it's all so fucked up. You wouldn't understand," he says, squinting against the sunlight blurring out Lars's contours, "actually, I wanted to talk to you about, well, that, but then I couldn't go through with it." He shrugs and picks at a crack in the tiles, the mortar crumbling.

"Hey, I'm still here." And Lars is, his arms crossed in front of him and a slight frown marring his forehead. "And just why wouldn't I understand it?"

Basti exhales. This is the Lars of old, the Lars that wouldn't let go of a topic or a problem until he'd discussed it to death. "Because –" and there are so many things that have to be left unsaid, for his sake, for _Metze's_ sake, for everyone who's involved, really. "Because," he starts again, "it's not just a – what, fling?" He snorts. As if Metze would be one, and he involuntarily has to smile thinking of what Metze would reply to that accusation. "Years. It's been years, actually. But to be honest, we met again only last week after a very long time."

Lars nods. "I see. So it's more than just attraction, isn't it?"

Basti shrugs. "I don't know. I just know that when we separated – had to – years ago, it really hurt. A lot. And then, last week, when we saw each other again, it was as if nothing had changed in our relationship. We still fit perfectly, and –" he closes his eyes, and there are Metze's warmbrown eyes, chocolate dark and laughing. "I think I haven't been that happy in a long time since I saw – since we met again," he says, smiling wryly at Lars.

"Well," Lars says, shaking his head, "this sounds serious, and I see why you think you're in a fucked-up place. But there's always a way out, I've found."

"Oh, a way _out_?" Basti winces; that sounded sharper than he had intended.

But Lars doesn't flinch. "What did you think I was going to suggest?"

"Break things off, go back to the wife – what else?" Basti sighs. "Fuck."

"Maybe this assumption says more about _you_ than about me, Basti," Lars says, raising his eyebrows. "Because what I was going to say was that divorces have been around for decades, centuries even. And then you could see if you can be happy with the one you love. Only a fool would deny you your right to do so."

He's _not_ going to cry. Not in front of Lars. So Basti just nods. "Maybe."

"Hey," and then he's in a hug, Lars's body hard against his, "the world's not ending." When he releases Basti, he's smiling at him. "See you later, and remember your promise!"

Basti snorts. "Yeah, sure." But he returns the smile, albeit a bit wobbly. "Have fun with your kids!"

Lars grins. "Sure thing," and then he gets into his car and starts the engine. His window rolls down and then he leans out and yells, "Give my best regards to Metze - the guy deserves some happiness, too, Basti!" With these last words and an accompanying wink, he's off, threading into the slow traffic neatly, and then the silver car goes around a corner and –

Basti's heart has stopped, time swirling around him at the centre, and yet the world isn't actually ending as he always imagined it would. He starts to laugh with surprise and joy, and the elderly couple that passes him on the sidewalk eyes him warily as he must be crazy, yes, utterly so. But he doesn't care a whit, the laughter bubbling up in him like a soda can that has been shaken too much and is overflowing now, and he doesn't stop laughing even when he feels his cheeks getting wet.

*

"There you are," Metze says as Basti closes the door behind him and he flinches slightly at the worry in the voice, carefully masked. But Basti knows the signs. "I'm sorry," he says, divesting himself of his coat and hanging it up, "it just took longer than I expected."

He had left a note, but it just had said, 'Meeting with a friend, will be back. Don't worry. Kehli'

Metze's sitting on the couch, his laptop in front of him and folders scattered around it, papers spread on the floor and on the table. "Working?" Basti asks, stating the obvious as he walks to the kitchen counter and fetches a glass from the shelves.

"Yeah," Metze says, leaning back, his warmbrown eyes still intent on Basti, "took some home with me yesterday."

Basti pours himself some beer. "Lars said to give you his regards."

"Ricken?" Metze asks. "As far as I know, he's still with the BVB. How is he?"

Basti shrugs. "Pretty okay." His throat welcomes the cool flow of the liquid gold, refreshingly bitter, and he doesn't stop until he has emptied the glass. The white beer foam slides down the glass' insides, pooling at the bottom, and it reminds Basti of the North Sea, of his last holiday, how the waves would leave their crests on the wetslick sand, foam sinking into it and then another wave would wash over it and new borders were created with every one, irregular curves and spikes, cooling Basti's feet as he walked in the sand, filling up his path behind him, seemingly erasing his past.

"Good to hear that," Metze says, and then his dexterous fingers are typing away on the laptop again, a soft click-click, topic closed, and Basti has to swallow a sigh. Sometimes Metze can be moody, but he knows from their years together that this is just the way he is.

There's another bottle in the fridge, and the glass almost overflows with the foam, but Basti catches it quickly. He crosses the room and as he doesn't want to disturb Metze working, he opens the sliding door to the garden and steps outside into the slightly cool air. He breathes in the sweetscented breeze; there must be lilac in one of the other gardens adjoining this one.

He hears paper shuffling and clicking noises, and it's soothing in a strange way. The beer is cool in his mouth, sparkling and tasting like lazy summer days, and Basti closes his eyes, leaning back against the wall, feeling the cool rough texture against his back, still radiating a faint warmth from the declining sun.

"Hey," and suddenly Metze's there, warm breath in Basti's ear, and he smiles, his eyes still closed. "Hey," he whispers back. Metze's hand closes around his hand, loosening the beer glass from his grip. A warm mouth on his, fingers tracing his jaw line, turning him towards his best friend, and Basti sighs into the kiss, their tongues lazily tangling. A tingle spreads throughout his lower belly, and when Metze angles his head to delve deeper into Basti's mouth, he settles his hand on Metze's side, smoothing over the warm flesh through the thin fabric of the shirt, the softness telling of an expensive brand.

"Wait," and then Metze steps back, setting the half-empty glass of beer down on the little rickety table next to the tree. He smiles at Basti, the eyes warmtwinkling. "This way I'll never get any work done."

Basti laughs. "Well, it isn't my fault if you think I'm that distracting."

"How is that not your fault?" Metze asks, his hand coming to rest on Basti's shoulder and then he's kissing Basti again, "when you're the most beautiful man," another kiss, deeper and his fingers are working on the first button of Basti's shirt, then the second, " when I can't stop myself doing this," and Basti's moan is swallowed by the next kiss when Metze's thumb finds his nipple, rubbing hard, "when it's always been only you."

_Only you_, two simple words. But Basti closes his eyes and his fingers twist into Metze's shirt.

He wants Metze. And judging from the hot swell pressed against his thigh, he's not alone in his desire. "Let's take this inside," Basti whispers against Metze's wet lips, "or else I can't be held responsible for my actions."

"Yeah," Metze breathes, "inside."

And the couch again proves that it's surprisingly sturdy as they stumblefall on it, Basti on top of Metze, and then he pushes up Metze's shirt, the heaving chest warmpliant under his palms, his fingers brushing over the erect nipples, and then Metze bucks up into him, "goddamn, Basti," and he claims Metze's wetshining lips again, delving into his mouth. He has never felt more alive. Especially when Metze's fingers make quick work of his fly and slide in and around his cock, and it feels so damn _good_ that Basti groans into the kiss.

Metze jerks him off in exactly the way Basti loves; long, slow strokes alternating with hard quick ones, accommodating the bucking of Basti's hips. His jeans are bunched up around his thighs along with the briefs Metze pulled down, cool air ghosting over his bare buttocks, and he kisses Metze, stealing the grunts and moans out of his mouth, countering them with his own, his tongue flickering over Metze's lips, tracing the soft contours. Metze pulls on his cock in rapid motion, squeezing a little, and when he slides the foreskin back to spread the precum around, Basti shuddermoans into his mouth and bears down hard on Metze, his fingers twisting in the dark hair.

It's just so fucking _good_, and the hot length of Metze's erection hidden in the sleek black trousers presses against his thigh and then he gasps, "Metze," stilling the movement of Metze's hand with his own.

Metze looks up at him, his cheeks flushed and the lips shining wet, the chest heaving, and Basti smiles. "That couch does get a lot of action, doesn't it?" he asks, winking as his hand gets busy with Metze's belt buckle, and Metze chuckles, his hand curving around Basti's hip, fingertips smoothing over the skin.

"Yeah, but it's comfortable enough, and - _Basti_," he moans when Basti's hand closes around his cock, and it takes just a little shifting to align them and then Metze's hand joins Basti's hand around their cocks and the friction, god damn it, it feels more than just good, it feels – "perfect," Basti breathes into Metze's mouth, and then they're kissing hard as their hands move in synch and Basti's pumping his hips to ante up the heat between them, building to the point of no return.

Their hands are slippery with precum and sweat, their fingers entwined and then Metze bucks up into him, "oh god," his other hand curling around Basti's neck, holding him down, catching his lips in yet another feveredhot kiss, and Basti feels Metze's cock twitch in his grip and the strongsharp smell of semen accosts him – "fuck," a loud groan and Metze's come splatters all over Basti's chest and some lands on his own, too. Seeing and feeling Metze come like that, coiled taut against him and these sounds – it doesn't take much for Basti to join him, bearing down and squeezing one last time and then he bites down on his lips, the sudden orgasm flooding his nerve system and he's jerkingshuddering, Metze's hands on him his only anchor.

He feels as if he could lie forever and ever in Metze's embrace, not minding the prick of Metze's belt buckle in his side and his jeans twisting around his thighs and the wet stickiness on their chests. Not so long as Metze's heart beats against his and he's smelling Metze, faint traces of the aftershave and a mix of sweat and semen. When he licks Metze's neck, he's rewarded by a soft chuckle.

"Hungry, are you?"

Basti smiles and sneaks a hand underneath Metze's shirt. "Not yet. You?" he says.

"Not really, but what do you say to eating out?" Metze's voice rumbles through his chest.

"Yeah, why not? Any good restaurants around here?"

"I think… Lebanese, there's a nice one, or if you prefer American, there's a great hamburger place. There's also a good one with Alsatian dishes, I've never been there but lots of people have recommended it to me," Metze says, his fingers lazily combing through Basti's hair.

"Alsatian? Sounds intriguing," Basti says, shifting slightly to escape the insistent belt buckle, but to no avail. He raises himself up, elbows digging into the leather padding of the couch.

Metze looks up at him, smiling, and his hand trails down to caress Basti's cheek. "I'll call them up to see if anything's free," he says, and then he looks down and his smile broadens into a grin. "And we should probably shower and change our clothes lest we get arrested for indecent exposure."

Basti chuckles. "Yeah, and it would be rather drafty, too."

*

Thanks to the fact that the sister of the maitre'd is currently working on the same campaign as Metze, they are sitting at one of the best tables with a nice view into the adjoining garden lit with torches, the light glittering on the small pond.

Metze has ordered the wine, an excellent one from 2010 – the best wine year of the new millennium so far, surpassing 2003 just by a bit – and they're waiting for the dishes that they ordered at the recommendation of the maitre'd, who told them their new and very promising cook had a Michelin star under his belt already.

There's faint classical music in the background and Basti leans back with a relaxed smile on his lips. "Now that's what I love. Excellent food, nice music, and most importantly, good company."

Metze smiles and raises his wine glass, the dark red reflecting the candlelight brilliantly. "To good company, then."

"No, let me rephrase that," Basti says, his smile growing serious. "To the best company."

*

Bliss. Basti lets himself fall backwards on the bed. "Damn, I haven't been this full in a decade, I think."

Springs creak, signalling to Basti that Metze has joined him on the bed. "Same here. That mousse…"

Basti laughs. "Yeah, that mousse. Probably the reason for the Michelin star, I bet."

A warm hand lands on his chest. "At least you _did_ get the recipe for the marinade."

Basti grins. It had been worth the cajoling and begging, after all. "Yeah, but that cook was a damn stubborn bastard. I was that close to just bribing him."

"I'd say death threats would've been more effective," Metze says.

Basti turns towards Metze and smiles. The contours of Metze's face are still visible in the dim light from the full moon outside and the eyes are gleaming. The faint stubble has taken on a silvery hue but it feels just as raspy as ever as Basti discovers, smoothing his hand over Metze's cheek.

"Thanks for the dinner," he says, and then he kisses Metze, softwarm. A faint tinge of mousse au chocolat is still discernible beneath the strong minty taste of the toothpaste. Their tongues tangle lazily, but Basti knows neither of them will be up for much more because they're, simply put, just too full and also rather tired.

"Good night, Christoph," he murmurs after he ends the kiss with a quick press to Metze's lips. After some tugging and pulling, the blankets are finally covering them. Basti's already halfway to dreamland, his arm slung over Metze's middle, but he still hears the faint, "Sweet dreams, Basti."

*

"Your cell, Basti." Metze swallows the last bite of his sesame bagel, nodding towards the direction of the faint ringing, and Basti looks up, surprised. "What? Oh – yeah, right," and he gets up, fetching the cell from his jacket.

Huh. Someone from the hotel is trying to reach him from the official phone and, walking back, he accepts the call, raising the mobile to his ear. "Sebastian Kehl speaking." It's probably Tina.

"Hello Sebastian." He's right.

"Hi Tina. Sorry I didn't call sooner, but –" and he pushes his empty plate and the half-empty cup of tea towards Metze, motioning to him that he's finished and gets up to move to the living room area.

"It's okay, Basti. Andy told me about your talk on Saturday and so I figured that you were okay – you are, right?"

Concern showing in her voice, and Basti swallows. "Yes, I am. You, too?"

A light laugh. "Of course. And everyone else here's fine, too. The tree house will be finished tomorrow. It just has to be sanded down and your father was talking about painting it, too, but that can be done later in the fall. You'll be astonished at how great it looks, up there in the big apple tree," she says.

"I'm looking forward to seeing it with my own eyes," he says, sitting down on the couch and watching Metze clean up the table, the dark head bent. "And the hotel's still standing, I take it?"

"Of course it is; unfortunately, a pipe in the cellar is leaking. I already called the plumber and he's going to look at it tomorrow first thing in the morning. Oh, and we did fill the last three big weekends of next year," she adds, her voice brightening, "two silver weddings and a huge family get-together, thirty people at least, possibly even forty-five, and they want the whole works. I'll have to hire two or three more maids to help with the servicing."

She's even better than he is at running the hotel, Basti thinks and smiles wryly. "That's great," he says, his eyes still on Metze who is now putting their dishes into the dishwasher, the porcelain clanking faintly.

"It is, isn't it? By the way, you're returning the day after tomorrow, aren't you?" Her voice's still carrying that light tone, but there's something else in it, too. And he knows it far too well. From Metze.

"Yeah, I think so." He hopes she didn't catch that almost inaudible sigh that followed these words. "I think I'm pretty okay again."

"Good. Good," she says, "that's good to hear."

"Yes," he says. Words hang unspoken in the air, _we have to talk_, _something has happened, has happened a long time ago, actually_, or _I don't know what to do_.

Each of them carrying a grain of truth. And he's too much of a wimp to confess to her, to tell her about them. Because these grains are also going to catch in the fine works of their marriage, maybe put a slight stutter into them, or even stall them. Maybe even blow them up as you can't grind truth into smaller parts of itself.

"So… I'll expect you sometime in the afternoon?" she asks. Careful, as if she knew that she was treading on unsafe ground or navigating through a dense fog. "Right?"

He closes his eyes before his surroundings, _Metze's_ surroundings blur together, "yes, that's right. Goodbye, Tina, and give Andy a kiss," and then he's ending the call with the cell phone skidding to a halt against the pile of folders on the couch table. Fuck.

Why – and then he bends over, his knees drawn up, and starts to cry, loud shaky sobs.

"Basti?" Worried, and then Metze's there, kneeling down and hugging him, awkwardly as Basti's still hunched up and his head bumps against Metze's chest. "Are you okay?"

"No," Basti hiccups, "I'm fucking _not_ okay," and then he's detangling himself from Metze's hold. "Sorry," he says as he brushes past Metze, "just need to shower and then we're good to go."

He doesn't wait for anything Metze might say as he takes the stairs two by two to the sanctuary of the bathroom. The water in the shower is scalding at first, but he nevertheless sticks his face under the spray to wash away all traces of his breakdown. Drowning in the hot water's onslaught on his body, he exhales loudly. Damn.

_"Yes, I'm okay. You, too?"_ How she had sounded. Careful. Worrying. As if he wasn't someone she had known almost all her life, but a stranger. Someone he never thought he'd be to her. Everything's slipping out from under his feet, the ground crumbling away, and he's alone, lost, and there's nothing to hold onto. Oh, _fuck_ it all, and he winces when the pain flares up in his knuckles hitting the tiles.

Fuck it all.

"Are you all right, Basti?"

"Yeah," he calls out, flexing his fingers. The hot water's still pounding his neck and he closes his eyes, leaning his head against the tiles for a moment. The surface is smoothwarm under his hand, closing him off from the world outside for the moment. Where Metze's waiting for him.

The shower gel feels cool when he lathers it onto his chest, the citrus smell sharp. His stomach, then around his shoulders, down the arms, and then the thighs. His genitals get just a short once-over, the foam catching in the wiry curls. A short rinse-off, and then Basti steps out of the shower and snatches a towel from the heating rails and rubs himself off briskly before he wraps it around his hips. When he opens the door, Metze's there, leaning against the wall and looking at him. "Are you okay?"

Basti swallows. "Yeah." He shivers, standing half-naked in the hall, and then Metze draws him in and he sinks into the warmth of Metze's chest, the chocolate brown cashmere pullover soft against his skin.

"I'm your best friend, Kehli," Metze murmurs, "and I don't want to see you hurting because of me. Never."

Basti sighs into Metze's neck, the faint smell of his aftershave tickling his nose. "This isn't your fault," he whispers. "It's no one's fault."

Metze's arms tighten around him in answer.

*

Dortmund's changed quite a bit. There's a new tower dominating the cityscape, "Ad agency, I worked with them on a campaign two years ago, good people," Metze says, and the city's streets are cleaner – at least it seems like that to Basti – and there are many new shops, too. But it's still as full of people as always, teenagers playing hooky and crowding around fast-food diners and old couples strolling along with other people squeezing past them, hurrying to the subway station and gaggles of women friends window-shopping, chatting and giggling.

Basti smiles at Metze walking next to him. "It's just like it always was. Save for the fan hordes," he adds, winking at Metze.

A deep chuckle. "You don't miss them, do you?"

"Nah," Basti says, "but it was nice. You remember our homepages?" he adds with a grin. "All the teasing and the campaigns. It was great to interact with our fans like that."

Metze smiles at him. "Yeah, I remember," he says. "I have everything saved on my hard drive. And in two other places, to be safe." And maybe he notices Basti's surprise, because he points to a garishly decorated shop ahead. "Didn't you say something about toys?"

Basti nods. "Yeah. I need to buy something for my son," he says, glancing up at Metze. "This is the first time I've been away from him longer than a few days."

Metze nods and there's something in his eyes Basti can't discern. But then they've entered the shop and it's any little boy's paradise; the newest hologames on display along with expensive VR sets, and there's a WiiZo on display from Nintendo.

"Wow," Basti laughs, "this place is great. I could leave Andy here for hours, even days, and he wouldn't even notice it."

"Only when the place'd short-circuit on account of him trying to play all the games here simultaneously," Metze says dryly.

Basti walks over to the hologames. "Yeah, you're right. And I should really buy something sensible, or Tina will be mad at me for spoiling him," he says, his fingers trailing over the packaging of an adventure game. "He does love Playmobil, and he always wants to have more add-ons to his pirate set-up."

"Well, in that case I think you'll get lucky over there," Metze says and Basti follows him, and then they're standing in front of shelves and shelves filled with hundreds – nay, thousands of small and big Playmobil packages. "I had to buy something here for Sebastian's little boys a month ago, so this one," Metze says and lifts a middle-sized package from a shelf, "would he like it?"

Basti takes it. A small pirate boat with a grizzled captain, but in different colours than the one Andy already has – dubbed Käpt'n Kraken, and two men, one with an eye patch and the other with a parrot on his shoulder, complete with a treasure chest filled with gold coins. "Great. Andy has only like five gold coins left over because they're so tiny that they get lost all the time and it's always a total bitch to try to get them out of the crocodiles. Thanks, Metze," he says, smiling up at his best friend.

"You're welcome, Basti," Metze says, returning the smile. "But – crocodiles?"

"The many wonders of Playmobil," Basti quips as he walks to the counter to pay for the pirate setup.

There's a little café next door, and when they've settled down with the bag containing the Playmobil package and the nice waitress has bought them their orders - a cappuccino for Metze and an espresso for Basti – Metze says, "Tell me about your son."

*

They're back at Metze's at around seven p.m. with more than the one shopping bag as they also stopped by Saturn because Metze's hooked on some American crime-sci-fi series and just had to have the newest season. And then there's the upcoming birthday of Stefan, his eldest brother, who's going to be the proud owner of a bottle of the finest Glenfidditch.

"Finally," Basti says, after he's shed his jacket and his shoes. His lips touch Metze's cheek, warmsoft. "That's for finding the perfect present." Another kiss, this time on the mouth. "For when you asked me to tell you about Andy." And then he's pulling Metze backwards with him to the big couch, continuing to kiss him, and when they hit the couch, they're still wrapped around each other.

Basti's hands squeeze Metze's ass. "I wanted to do that when you bent over to pick out the BluRays. You still have got the best ass in the world." And when Metze's hand rises to caress his cheek, Basti intercepts its move by entwining their fingers. "I wanted to do that all day."

And this is when Metze kisses him, and Basti gets lost in the overpowering force of the kiss, in the insistence of Metze's desire, in the sheer _hunger_. Before he even notices it, his shirt is pulled out of the trousers, the fly zipped open, and there's some fumbling until the button pops open, and then Metze's interrupting the kiss, both of them breathing heavily, and then he winks slyly at Basti. "Enjoy yourself – but don't touch me."

Then Metze's warmwet mouth is on Basti's cock and he has to stifle a groan when the head of his cock scrapes past Metze's palate, sliding right into the tighthot throat and then out again. Metze licks around the head, nudging at the foreskin with his tongue, and Basti hisses because _damn_ it, his best friend does give the best blowjobs. He looks down at Metze's head between his legs, his hand resting on Basti's stomach, the thumb caressing the sparse hair of Basti's happy trail. And then Metze's sucking him down again and Basti groans, trying to spread his legs more, pushing his hips up reflexively.

Metze looks up at him and his hand curls around Basti's hip, the thumb following the indent of the hipbone. He lets Basti's fully hard cock rest on his lips and then a gust of cool air sweeps over the head and Basti breathes "_fuck,_" as his hands scrabble for hold on the couch, the smooth leather escaping his sweaty grip. His legs start to shake, the jittery feeling spreading out from his stomach.

When the warmwet lips close around the head again, the teeth gently scraping over that place just underneath it, Basti moans, it has been to fucking _long_, and then Metze _sucks_, hard, as if he was trying to suck out the juicy sweetness from a popsicle, leaving behind only a white crystallized mass.

Basti's cock jerks and an insistent tongue laps up the first drops of precum, the tip poking into his slit alternating with short sweeps over the head. Basti's eyes are closed, but he can still see everything just as clearly in his mind: how Metze's tongue sneaks out, curling around the head, warmwet and just so perfect, and suddenly a hand tugs on his trousers and he obediently lifts his ass and with some quick yanks they're pulled down to his ankles. Suddenly his cock is back in Metze's mouth and he can feel the throat working around the head of it and then something – a finger, already wet with saliva or precum, burrows in between Basti's ass cheeks and he shudders, spreading his legs further.

Basti swallows hard in anticipation, his eyes scrunched shut, and then the finger enters him in a single thrust along with Metze upping the rhythm of sucking him off and it doesn't take long until Basti's shivering and gasping against the merciless sweet torture, bucking up and down, his ears ringing from the echoes of his own moans and grunts, but Metze doesn't stop, no – when he takes him down his throat again, this is _it_, and stars explode vividly in front of Basti's eyes, supernovas everywhere, blinding him with their brilliance and he's gasping for air, his hands digging into Metze's shoulders, every explosion sending shudders through his body as Metze swallows his come, throat constricting around his cock which sends bright shivers up Basti's spine, the last fireworks going up in the air, glittering golden and trundling slowly down.

When he opens his eyes again, the finger and the mouth are gone but Metze's smiling up at him from between his knees. "Was it good for you?"

Basti can only shake his head. "Way to ask, Metze." But he returns the smile and lifts a hand to smooth his thumb over Metze's cheek, his fingers curling into the short hair and then he's tugging Metze up to himself. The taste of his own come is bitter on his tongue, but he doesn't mind it as he delves further into Metze's mouth, lazily tangling with his tongue, the last glimmering strands of the skyrockets settling down.

*

Metze had only been able to take the day before off from work and had to promise to come in for more meetings today to make up for it, But over a quick breakfast with warmed-up rolls and hotstrong coffee (for Metze, Basti made his tea himself), he had promised Basti with a honey-flavoured kiss that he'd try not to get home too late.

Today is Basti's last day at Metze's. Tomorrow he will have to return to his hotel in Lahrbach and to his family, his wife and his son, and forget about this … yes, what is it? A week of madness? Of something utopian that he could never really have?

_"And then you could see if you can be happy with the one you love. Only a fool would deny you your right to do so."_ Lars's words echo in his head and Basti sighs as he stuffs the used dishes into the dishwasher after scraping off the crumbs into the sink.

The one you love.

At one point in his life he had thought that it was Tina, and then the memories come. Tina smiling at him broadly, clapping her hands as he accepts a huge bouquet of flowers from a local charity organisation as thanks for his generous donation, pride shining in her eyes. Tina as she stands in their little kitchen, the slightly-too-big apron from his mother wrapped around her hips, her hair tied up in a ponytail and that little frown that always makes him want to kiss it and smooth it away with his fingertips, and her tongue sneaks out to wet her lips in concentration as she pours flour into the bowl for a birthday cake for Andy. Tina as she lies on the chequered woollen blanket in the garden, sunglasses perched on her nose and the skirt riding up her thighs, revealing her smooth pale skin, a well-thumbed paperback novel resting on her stomach and rising with every breath she takes. Tina feeding Andy from her breast, him still a little red crunched-up thing, and she smiles down at him as she props him up so that his ever-hungry mouth finds her swollen nipple, a tiny drop of milk already forming on it.

Tina. Who stands by him, has always done so, never-wavering, always the same gentle strong woman who believed in him a hundred per cent. She is perfect in every aspect, and yet there's Metze.

Who isn't as perfect as Tina is, and yet he is more perfect for Basti than she is. Because Metze understands him and challenges him and Basti can never take him for granted – and yet he does.

*

The park nearby isn't very full; there are only the occasional seniors going for their daily walks and the young mothers with their prams. There's the odd jogger, too, and people walking dogs of all sizes and breeds. Basti chooses a bench overshadowed by a large willow tree.

He had felt useless at Metze's after he scrubbed the kitchen sparkling clean and tidied up the bedroom, made the bed and put most of his clothes back into his bag, leaving only the things he'll pack in the morning, always prepared and ready. He had learned that the hard way when he had to move away from home at sixteen to a city where he knew no one and where he had to take care of himself in a small flat that nevertheless felt huge and terrifying to him.

Basti sighs and leans back, the rough wood of the bench making him careful to not run his palms too quickly over the back as he doesn't want to end up with splinters. The sun's heating up as it's noon already, warming the front of his dark blue shirt.

There's just too much to think about, and he just – he wants to have a little rest, a bit of peace from the mess that is his life, everything jumbled up and he can't see a way out. But he can't stop the troubled thoughts whirling in his head and setting him on edge.

If he and Metze – and he shoves away the thought before it forms fully, before all the implications and consequences are laid out in front of him (what of the hotel, what of his family, what of their future, what if a divorce takes place). He just can't afford it.

He imagines himself returning to his home, to his life. Smiling at Tina, kissing her on the soft lips, stroking the soft waves of her hair and raising Andy to sit on his shoulders, feeling the small hands of his son tangle in his hair, seeking for hold. The thin strong legs hooking in under his shoulders, Basti's hands securing the scraped-up knees. Walking together towards the hotel, the windows reflecting the sinking sun's light, gleaming a warm yellow, and he'll hear faint upbeat music from within, and it's what he has always dreamt of.

_But you'll lie awake at night, tossing and turning, and every time a tall and dark-haired man arrives, you'll sneak glances his way and your heart will skip a beat whenever you see a new name in the registry starting with 'M', and all the time you remember –_

"Fuck!" Basti bends over, burying his head in his hands, the sudden ache too much to bear.

*

They eat in silence, listening to the soft classic music from Metze's stereo. Basti chews slowly on his food, unsure of what to say. The atmosphere is strained as the fact that Basti will be gone tomorrow weighs on them. They hadn't talked about it the day before nor the day before that – it's as if by not talking about it, they could still live on like this, but they've actually been cheating themselves the whole time. The lump in Basti's throat gets harder and harder to swallow. The wine's excellent, but it might as well be vinegar for the taste it leaves in Basti's mouth.

Bowls and plates are exchanged only with nods, and quick perfunctory smiles serve as thanks. Far too soon everything is cleaned off, the last potato being sliced in two by Metze's knife and Basti has scraped the last few peas onto his plate.

"Thanks," quietly and Basti looks at Metze and sees one corner of his mouth curl up in a wry smile, disappearing in the next nanosecond. "I will now have to get used to take-out food again," Metze says, and then he closes his eyes. "Sorry."

"It's okay," Basti says.

Metze's eyes are dark and unfathomable although the kitchen is brightly lit, and he takes a sip from his wine glass. "Is this the way it's going to be, then?" he asks when he sets the wine glass down again.

Basti shakes his head, biting on his lower lip so hard that he has to close his eyes at the sudden pain, and then he says, "I can't, I mean – fuck, Metze, this isn't easy."

Metze nods. "Well, I've already decided what I want," he says quietly, leaning forward. "To be with you. This is everything I want. I don't want to spend the rest of my life asking, 'what if?' and hanging onto fading dreams and memories of something that once was and could have been. I don't want that to happen with us. I want something real – and I'm willing to pay any price for that. So that my life has for once a _fucking_ purpose."

A thousand thoughts are whirling in Basti's mind but he can't bring himself to open his mouth out of fear of what he might reply.

_Something real._

Metze's chair scrapes harshly over the kitchen's tiled floor. Basti gulps down the last remnants of wine as he watches Metze tidy up the table, stacking up bowls and plates and throwing all of the cutlery onto the uppermost plate, and the clanking of dishes into the sink seems to be louder than usual.

Metze doesn't turn back to him when he's done, but his hands close around the edges of the sink and Basti can see the muscles in back tightening up. Bracing himself for a blow.

"Christoph," he says, getting up from the table and leaning against it. "That – you don't know what you're asking for," Basti says, gripping the smooth edge of the table so hard that it feels as if his knuckles are going to snap.

"Enlighten me, then," Metze says, just as quietly as before, but there's something _looming_ in that quietness and Basti swallows. "Just tell me why you are that bent on being so _fucking_ blind?"

"_I'm_ the blind one here?" Basti says, his voice raising. "You don't bloody know anything about my life, you don't know what I'd be putting on the line, you don't know fuck-all about–" but he catches himself, swallowing the words crowdingpushing up his throat and then Metze rounds on him, eyes blazing and the anger in them barely reined in.

"_Fuck_ you," he snarls, "do you even realize how fucking stupid you are? To not see what we have?"

Basti closes his eyes. Suddenly a coppery tang blooms over his tongue and he swallows the saltiness, the heat of Metze in front of him is almost too much to bear, and he knows that if he were to inch forward just that bit, he'd –

and he's pushing Metze off, wanting to shove him backwards, but his fingers clutch at the soft fabric of Metze's shirt. He burrows his head into Metze's chest and says, almost-pleading, "I can't just throw away my _life_, Christoph. I can't."

"But you'd be willing to throw away _our_ life, is that it?" Metze says, the anger simmered down but still boiling, and this is when Basti flips out. He just can't – can't be called upon to decide this right now in this instant, it's too _much_. This is when he really shoves Metze, yelling all these words that clawed into his chest, "damn you to hell, why did you have to come and disrupt my life that was _perfectly_ fine and turn it into a fucking mess, tell me, _why_? It's a fucking mess, and it's all your fault, and –"

A sudden hard press of lips against his own shuts him up and Metze hisses, "Stop it, Sebastian, _stop_."

But Basti shakes his head, Metze's contours blurring and then he's blindly reaching out, wanting him to see reason, the madness of this stupid stubbornness. Basti crushes his lips on Metze's, their teeth scraping as he lets his tongue plunder Metze's mouth, and then it's just a mad turmoil – their bodies coiling against each other, they're wrestling, harsh breathing ringing in Basti's ears and it _hurts_, Metze's iron grip on his ass sure to leave bruises, and there's a slight ripping noise which means that Metze's shirt couldn't withstand the hard tugs that Basti subjected it to.

But at the same time Basti realizes that he's also fucking hard and he's been rubbing himself against Metze's thigh, kissing him as if the world were about to end, fuelled with desperation and anger tasting brightcoppery. He can't stop, especially not when Metze manages to sneak a hand down into the tighthot space between them and then his hand rubs him through his trousers and Basti bucks up, groaning, fisting his hand into Metze's shirt, clutching at the skin underneath and there'll be redangry stripes later. But he doesn't care and their mouths clash, again and again, in rhythm with Metze's hard thrusts against his hip, the hardhot length curving against Basti's hipbone.

The angry glow in Basti's stomach has turned into a blazing fire, burning himself up from within, the heat unbearable, almost_too_much, and Metze jerks against him, his breath stuttering hotly into Basti's mouth. His own groin is sopping wet, the palm of Metze's hand pressing hard against his painfully throbbing cock, and he just _wants_, arching up into Metze.

A sudden hard heave from Metze and Basti feels hot dampness spreading on his hip, accompanied with muffled grunts against his neck. His cock spasms against Metze's trembling hand and he grinds up against Metze, yearning for "_more_," the fire surging higher and higher, hotly licking on his skin – and then it erupts into a million sparks, each searing Basti's mind and leaving behind sweetachyshimmering trails.

When the last embers are only glowing, Basti lifts his head from where it was plastered to Metze's shirt, or, more accurately, to the ruins of Metze's shirt – at least three buttons are missing and there's a rip down one side – and he winces at the cooling drippingwet patch in his trousers, stickily enveloping his softened cock. They've let go of each other, but are still in a loose embrace, Basti's hands somehow having settled on Metze's shoulders and Metze's hands are resting on his hips, warm anchors.

Metze's still flushed from the violent orgasm, red spots crowding around his collarbones. He's looking at Basti, his lips lax and swollen, still shimmering wetly. "Is this what you want, Sebastian?" he asks, quietly.

Basti swallows. "I'm sorry, Christoph," he says. "I didn't want – no, I don't even know what I want, fuck –"

Metze's hand comes up and then his fingers settle on Basti's mouth and he can smell his own semen mixed with sweat, strongsharp. But this gentle touch lasts only for a moment.

"It's okay," Metze says, his lips curving up in something that is not a smile. He turns away and Basti's hands fall from the rucked-up shirt.

Metze's walking away. _Again._ This can't – and then a "No!" is wrenched from Basti's chest and he gasps for air, almostchoking, and he just crumbles into a heap, his back scraping against the wall, "_no_," Basti repeats, everything blurring around him, and he's so fucking alone, and –

warm arms envelop him and Basti clings to the body in front of him and he moans as he burrows his head into Metze's neck, the shoulders flexing under his desperate grip, "don't you ever dare to leave me again," and the hold tightens, "I already missed you so fucking much, not again, I can't –"

"Shh, yes, it's okay, Basti, it's okay, it'll –" and this is when Basti has his glorious epiphany and gasps, "I want this, I want _you_, Christoph," hot wetness blossoming around his closed eyes into the soft fabric of Metze's much-abused shirt.

_I want you._ The echo rings in his ears until he realizes that he's repeating over and over again, huddled up in Metze's strong embrace, and it feels as if something unfurls in his stomach, spreading a quiet warmth throughout him.

"You _idiot_, Kehli," Metze says into his hair, warmbreath fanning, and there's an infinite tenderness in his voice.

Basti has to smile against his tears, his fingers curling around Metze's neck and it's fucking more than okay.

It's _perfect_.

"You look like shit," Metze says, and when Basti looks up at him, he's grinning and his _eyes_ – and then they're kissing, passionately but with a different fervour than before. Metze's hands are in his hair, holding him in place, bestowing a thousand promises onto him with the kiss, with the way his body moves against Basti's, and it's the start of something glorious and beautiful and justso_right_.

~ fin ~


End file.
